


Hope

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:44:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8592958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir brings breakfast and a prayer for the harp.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His fingers hesitate before knocking gently at the door, and a now-familiar voice calls, “Enter.” Lindir’s breath catches in his throat, as it always does when he’s about to face one of the world’s greatest legends.

He slowly twists the handle and lets himself inside, trying vainly to stifle the reverence on his face—what an _honour_ it is to be here.

Maglor looks no different than any other morning. Having grown used to Lindir’s interruptions, he hasn’t moved from bed, his body still relaxed in the silken sheets, his gaze still fixed on his lap, a scroll unfurled across his blanket. It’s so old that the ink has nearly faded, but Lindir can still make out the elegant dots of music intonation. He comes beside the bed with his breakfast tray in tow, and Maglor waits a moment before rolling up the scroll and setting it aside.

Lindir lays the tray in Maglor’s lap. It’s as eloquent a display as he could devise: a full, proper meal with a few fresh flowers lining a slender vase in the center, and a wine glass sporting water from the spring. When it’s all in place, Lindir straightens to stand in waiting, ready to swap out any items that Maglor might desire. He means to be quiet and still: a studious servant, but his awe forces him to ask, “Forgive me, my lord... but were you revisiting a song?”

A soft smile spreads its way across Maglor’s bow lips. His handsome face, though older than anything else Lindir’s ever known, is still full of youth and beauty. His eyes are always heavy, perhaps sad, his strong form wilted with the weight of all his years and horrors. Lindir thinks, at first, that Maglor won’t answer him, which is just as well—he’s owed nothing from this living god. But once Maglor’s finished slicing his bread into little pieces, he asks, “Is that why you attend to me so studiously, Lindir? On the chance of hearing my music?”

Lindir’s chest tightens, the blood rushing to his cheeks. He has to stifle a wince at being caught, but of course a young minstrel like himself would idolize such a renowned musician. His beloved Lord Elrond has told him all too many tales of Maglor’s stunning talent. 

Yet since his arrival in Imladris, Maglor has been grimly silent, locked away in private chambers, and Lindir longs, almost as much as his lord and master, to change that. 

He finally stammers, “It would not only be my honour, my lord... but even more so, it would warm my lord Elrond to hear it. He... had such high hopes for your return.”

Maglor pauses with a strawberry halfway to his mouth. The mention of Elrond always does that to him. Sometimes, it seems he must have as much love for Elrond as Lindir, though Lindir’s not sure such a thing is possible. 

Then Maglor takes his berry and chews it with a ragged sigh. Even this he does elegantly: he’s a true _prince_ , from a time before Lindir could conceive, from a place of jewels and wonder and true riches beyond the dreams of this Middle Earth. Lindir’s sure, somehow, that he’ll hear that beauty in Maglor’s music. And he longs for it like nothing else. 

Eventually, Maglor murmurs, “He has been very kind to me.” They both know who he means. Maglor nods his head, as if strengthening resolve, and turns his dark eyes to Lindir to proclaim, “I will play at tonight’s feast.”

Lindir fights to keep his smile from overwhelming him. He’s sure he must fail. He dips into a respectful bow, and when he rises, he promises, “I will have our finest harp prepared.” He leaves, then, awash in giddy anticipation, and runs straight to his lord’s room.


End file.
